private deception, disgrace & . hps

− ♱ ABOUT : as the man stalks back into camp, he knows he will address his clan in the morning — for now he is seething. alight with a burning, red - hot rage and disbelief. it was an odd day, one in which he’d taken the side of a kittypet leader over his own former colonymate. the small smoke was descending into a disgusting madness, marring her own warriors ; they were to see it as rewards, the poor things. he thinks of the rippling flesh along spot’s chest, barely - healed and rippling with raw, wrinkled tissue. he thinks of his own scars — similarly gnarled, deep - centered gashes drawn up and down his tender belly. the thought of her mutilation makes him want to curl in on himself, protecting his sensitive underside from being seen by prying eyes. he was thankful for his thick, curled fur . . thankful for the position, tucked away, difficult to see for most. the phantom pain makes him shudder, the healing. the stinging, itching process of closing gaping wounds. in windclan, this was a gift.

he was appalled.

willowroot, smokethroat, come with me. beesong . . you, too. “ the tortoiseshell tom mutters, his head low as the clan entering behind them scatter, heading towards cats that have eagerly awaited their return. he watches them, locates that burning kindle of pride shining golden beneath his ribs and clings to it, the plummeting feeling in his stomach rolling nausea. windclan was eating itself from the inside, a fish rotting at the head. he predicts soon, sootstar will go too far — she will kill one of her own in her honor, she will lead with fear over broken, tattered warriors. he will not have it cross over the gorge. as the usually tall leader walks towards the waters behind his willow tree. the night is calm despite earlier events, a gentle wind breezing quiet over nearly - still waters, rings of movements bobbing from where fish flit nervous just beneath. he slowly forces his slightly - bristling fur to lie flat, settling down just aside the lapping shore and lifting his head towards where his lead warriors would surely follow.

the thought of harming them — the thought of his lead warriors, weak enough to let themselves be maimed. he trusted that they would sooner take him down than subject the clan to the terrors of a leader so willing to harm. he knows they would strike him down should they deem him beyond reasoning, and that is precisely the reason he chose them — they cared for their clan, for the people they loved, above all else. willowroot, turning against their own and joining in hopes of a better future for the youngest of their family. smokethroat, who proved himself daily in interacting with the budding youth of the clan, teaching them right from wrong, albeit grumpily. true, loyal, courageous warriors. it made him ponder of those just beyond the moors, what horrors lurk amongst the wind and rabbits. the man would make sure their ranks proved no issue for them, certainly not after their brave leader had been outed in her ways. the entire forests bustles now with nerves and he is quite similar, fidgeting ivory paws against ever - damp soil for a second before he settles, steeling himself for a chat.

his frigid gaze is cast out over the waters when he hears movement — taking a deep breath, he speaks, “ we’re discussing windclan. “ accented vocals are firm, yet soft over the rippling waters. soot. he’d lived alongside her, once, “ schiesse, the things i’ve heard tonight . . i would have never imagined . .

  • @Smokethroat @willowroot @BEESONG
    time 2. gossip
  • CICADASTAR ; he / him. roughly thirty seven months old, riverclan leader
    − handsome, lanky black smoke tortie chimera with curly fur and icy blue eyes
    − gay. speaks with a thick german accent, former marsh cat, penned by antlers

  • none.


He is fire, fury, lashing tail like a serpent poised to strike and teeth visible in a barely restrained snarl the entire trek back home. He wants to sink his teeth into something, wants to know how such a fool like Sootstar received nine lives from StarClan when she held no respect for life itself. He could have humored killing an attacker on her own land, but the way she harms her own warriors, the way neither of her medicine cat's dared to meet anyone's gaze the entirety of the meeting, surely this was not something the heavens wanted of their newly founded clans; a legacy of scars and fear. That he did not decide to act on his own at the gathering was not a mercy but a formality, he’d not desecrate what was essentially a place of mass loss and bloodshed that StarClan deemed a land to be revered. Willowroot had spoken out, but he had remained silent because the effort to hold his tongue was the only thing grounding him in place; his own forced silence was an act of stability and focus that kept him from offering judgment with his claws. That he would no sooner purge the world of a wretch like that if given half the chance was not something to be trifled with, let him catch her on the border, let her speak out without respect, he'd carve out her tongue first so she could die without the voice that boasted her closeness to the sky and self-righteousness. Impudence. Folly. What wax wings she had, he only hoped the day was bright and the sun high. When the mottled leader urged them to step aside and follow he hesitated only a moment to turn and make sure everyone was accounted for, a brief head count of the cats who had gone in comparison to those who returned; everyone seemed present and he was certain there were no stragglers. With a quick bound to catch up to the longer strides of the tall leader he offered Willowroot a concerned look before looking back ahead until they had come to a stop. Smokethroat sat, shifting to whisk his tail over the petals that still clung to some of his back to sweep them away; the bright red reminding him too much like blood for his current mindset to tolerate.

Cicadastar's calm voice explains why he has summoned them and Smokethroat witholds his remarks expecting that what was wanted of them was a proper discussion without outbursts and a degree of composure but it is the hastily uttered word he knows to be a swear that has him standing back up out of restlessness and he let what he had held in the entire gathering froth and foam to the surface like a volcanic eruption, "The NERVE of that rabbit-eating little harpy! She's so low to the ground I'm surprised StarClan can even SEE her let alone approve of the madness she's spewing! Scarring your own cats? And she promoted that little sniveling wretch of a bastard-he had better pray I don't spot a single hair on his pelt on our territory or I'll toss him into the gorge!"
He spoke in a long, unbroken stream of words and curses and found himself panting in annoyance at the end of it, huffing for breath and waiting for his bristling fur to settle back down where it had risen up into ridged spikes along his spine.
"...sorry." The dark tom said simply then, sitting back down and lowering his head almost sheepishly to the sudden spiel he'd rambled off into.

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( ) she feels his fire. her fellow, in both rank and attitude, is blazing, heat searing his skin and erupting in his eyes. his emotions are as obvious as a forest fire, even if he tries to keep them in, and it is at times like these that she appreciates how the two of them knit together. when he is flame, she is ice, and when she burns, he cools. they work in tandem, one always level, the other reactive. opposite elements they are, and yet they fit. he is ablaze tonight, which means she stalks beside him, a glacier. her words spoken at the gathering still ring in her head, a mixture of satisfaction and regret making itself known. she wishes she'd said more, snarled out any kind of insult she could, but in the back of her mind, she realizes there is not much she can do.

when cicadastar dismisses his clan, they spread like the seeds of a dandelion, rumors and news planting new questions in the minds of those who missed the drama. willowroot remains beside smokethroat, eyes fixated upon the dappled leader as he mutters orders. there is an anger swirling in all of them, she knows, some more than others, but she does not envy her leader his job. watching him slink off into the inky night, she follows on assured paws, exchanging a glance with her fellow as they settle. the king of the waters speaks, his voice tired and firm, emoting more than perhaps she knows he means to. there is a silence, a contemplation of words before smokethroat erupts, curses spewed from tight lips in an angry burst.

they watch, weighing their thoughts as the man paces, fur fluffed, ranting and raging. what he speaks of is true enough- the witch of the moors defies any rational law of nature with her whims. sootstar's ideas of punishment cannot be trusted if her notions of promotion end with bloodied claws and scarred bodies. truly, something is deeply wrong on the windswept plains. they don't have to think hard to conclude this. when their ember eyed friend pauses in his ramble, fur flattening again in embarrassment, they open their mouth, a soft sigh exhaled. "stars above, something is wrong with the moors." is all they can say, having nodded emphatically along with the rantings before. "smokethroat speaks correctly, cicadastar. thinking about this as if it were my own clan, i would rather - and forgive me for saying this - but i would rather see you die than see you behave the way sootstar is behaving now." their tone is matter of fact but there is a lace of cold anger beneath their words. "the fighting within the clans has never sat right with me, although i know there is little to be done about that, and perhaps i am missing some context from before there were established clans. still, i think it's abominable the measures windclan has taken to keep their territory safe. there is no asking questions, only attacking first and thinking later. this has lead to the death of one warrior and the attack of yourself." gnawing on their lip, willowroot takes a moment, collecting themself.

"this is not the way we are meant to live. there is no honor in brutality, especially as it seems windclan was hardly threatened during these attacks. perhaps i cannot speak for skyclan, nor their lost warrior, but on your end, at least, the fact that weaselclaw attacked you without even pausing to question you is ridiculous. that said, it's almost a blatant call for hostility that sootstar dare promote him. like you said at the gathering, i've known unruly apprentices to be punished longer than that mongrel."